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Balston House Dining Room

Two mornings later

Evan took a bracing sip of strong coffee as his mother and grandmothers entered the dining room. His sisters had arrived a few minutes ago and, after filling their plates from the sideboard, chatted excitedly about an upcoming ball a neighbor was hosting. Once his aunts entered, the chaos would be complete.

He’d already denied his sisters’ entreaties for new ballgowns. How many ballgowns did a woman require? They had pouted prettily but then launched into ideas of how they each might freshen one of their current gowns.

As they crossed the polished floor, the older women called good morning to the room at large.

“Good morning,” Evan replied, cutting into a thick slice of ham.

His sisters echoed his greeting. Rosalind, his elder by one year, gave a distracted little wave to their mother and grandmothers. Sarah, three years younger than Evan’s nine-and-twenty years, and Larissa, four years younger than Sarah, smiled but kept eating.

He eyed the doorway expectantly.

The aunties would sail in momentarily.

Ten women prattling like magpies might send a less tolerant man straight to his study or the stables. There were times Evan wished he had another brother or two, a male cousin, or an uncle about. But all in all, he didn’t mind being outnumbered.

Perhaps Miss Slater would join them too.

George Slater had regained consciousness shortly after she’d returned to his chamber and had eaten half a bowl of cock-a-leekie soup that first night. Relieved but still concerned, Miss Slater hadn’t been willing to leave his side all of this time.

However, Slater had requested a bath this morning. Last night, Doctor Dargavel had said Slater might bathe if he were careful, had assistance from at least two male servants, and promptly returned to bed.

The physician still hadn’t ruled out internal injuries other than the suspected bruised spleen, although there didn’t appear to be any fresh concerns. It was difficult to tell where the source of his pain originated with the numerous welts and purple-yellowish marks covering Slater’s torso and his broken ribs.

His dutiful and remorse-ridden daughter would have to vacate her father’s chamber. It was high time she formally met Evan’s family in any event. She’d seen Mother a few times in the corridor, but other than that, Miss Slater had been as reclusive as a nun at a brothel.

Blige, the butler, skillfully prepared tea for the older women and placed it at their preferred seats as they selected their breakfast. Mother sat at the foot of the table, his grandmothers to her left and right. The aunts sat on the right side of the table and his sisters on his left. No sooner had his mother and grandmothers situated themselves than Evan’s aunts sailed in, four colorful schooners in full mast.

Mother’s younger twin sisters, Christina and Mareona Larimore, had never married. Christina’s affianced had broken off their betrothal a mere month before their nuptials and married an heiress. Mareona’s heart belonged to a soldier who’d never returned from war.

Father’s sisters, Katryne Kirkpatrick and Eufamie McCollister, had dutifully entered arranged marriages. Both childless when their husbands died several years ago, they’d adamantly refused to wed again. The women’s aversion to the married state said much about the fallacies of wedded bliss.

True, Evan’s parents’ union had been a calculated business arrangement. However, unlike her sisters, Anna Gordonstone, Duchess of Waycross, had fallen in love with Andrew Gordonstone and he with her. Theirs might not have been a marriage made in heaven, but the joining had been a far cry from the cold, humiliating, and lonely arrangements the aunts had endured.

When he inherited the dukedom, Evan had invited all of the women to live at Balston House. They’d been so grateful for the invitation—none had been left financially secure—that they’d eagerly accepted. Each contributed what they could to the running of the estate, and no one complained at the economies they made in order to live together.

It was no easy task to feed Evan’s family and the servants they employed.

Several moments passed as the women exchanged greetings and settled at the long table. As always in the summer months, a cheery bouquet of flowers from the gardens Mother so adored graced the center.

Mother smiled indulgently at her daughters presently discussing—arguing—about whether a woman could jump the hedges, fences, and other obstacles at the Wesleyans’.

Every year, the Wesleyans hosted a summer fair of sorts on their estate. This year’s was scheduled to take place in three days, and of course, Evan and his family would attend. It was expected of him as the highest-ranking local aristocrat.

Competitions included archery, shooting, and an equestrian hunting course. Women and men competed separately, which always aggravated his female relatives. Aunt Katryne was a better shot than Evan, and nobody within a hundred miles could beat Larissa with a bow and arrow.

The prizes for those events were paltry compared to the tidy purse the winners of the equestrian course took home. The men’s prize was considerably more than the women’s, and his sisters were positive a woman could win the course.

Though excellent riders all three, Mother had expressly forbidden her daughters to take their mounts over anything higher than a mud puddle. A very shallow, very narrow mud puddle at that.

John, Evan’s elder brother, had died after forcing his mount to take a jump too far across a creek. The horse had balked at the last moment and tossed John heel over arse. He’d struck his head upon a nearby boulder when he’d landed, dying instantly.

A mere six months prior, Father had died from complications brought on by an infected cut on his leg. John’s death so soon afterward had struck the family hard. Until then, Evan had possessed no idea the estate was in such dire financial straits either.

Rosalind shook her head. Her burnished copper curls, left loose and hanging down her back, bounced with her vehemence. “I believe a skilled woman could,” she insisted, holding her fork up for emphasis. “Women are no’ given enough credit. They can do anythin’ a man can.”